


temporary

by ohwow (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ohwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Scabior finds himself locked in a cellar with Luna Lovegood, pondering over the existence of Nargles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	temporary

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t write this all in one sitting – that would be a feat in itself – so the writing style is dependant on my mood; hence why you’ll see descriptive, past tense in one with long scenes, and in another you’ll see choppy, present tense, with short scenes. Hopefully this doesn’t confuse anyone! :)  
> Also, if age different couples offend you, don't read.  
> I own nothing.

“I don’t particularly like Umgubular Slashkilter,” her dreamy voice suddenly spoke from the opposite side of the enclosed cellar.

Arching a brow in her direction, he decided to humor the young girl who had obviously one too many encounters with the cruciatus cruse. “Is that so, love?”

She nodded, “yes. They’re really terrible Cornelius Fudge has one, you know…”

“No, I didn’t.”

Scabior turned to look out of the tiny crack in the wall, noticing that it was late in the night. More bounties would be out looking for people wandering. Giving his extensive knowledge from being a snatcher – former snatcher, now on the run… Locked in a cellar with Looney over there – he knew that people always assumed that moving at night limited their chances of being caught.

That was dead wrong; it heightened them.

“Yes,” the suddenness of her voice made him tense.

(It did not startle him… He wasn’t easily scared... And some chit couldn’t scare him anyways…)

“It’s all part of the Conspiracy of the Ministry…”

Scabior closed his eyes; he could feel a headache (“they tried to cover it up…”) – a massive headache – coming on. He pinched the bridge of his nose, all the while questioning how he ended up in this mess.

On the run from the Ministry, locked in a cellar with magically enforcements on it, stuck with some annoying girl who thought that he was actually interested in crumble-horned… babyback something… whatever, and left with not one alternative then the wait it out.

Luck was not on his side.

“…And the whole Ministry is completely overrun by elves who-”

… How the hell did he end up in this mess again?

Oh yeah - he glanced up at her pleasantly dreamy face, wide owlish eyes, and slivery blonde hair – because he was a sucker for pretty blue eyes.  
\- - -

After the fall of Voldemort – the name left a sort of paranoia even to this day when spoken – things rapidly changed. Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived (and Defeated the Dark Lord) – was celebrated as a hero, along with his muggle-born friend, Hermione Granger, and the pure-blood, Ronald Weasley. The magical world was slowly starting to be rebuilt piece by piece with the help of other wizards and witches.

It was stated all over the Daily Prophet that anyone who was associated with the “heinousness” and the “unspeakable evils” that the Dark Lord – He Who Must Not Be Named; You Know Who; The fallen Dark Lord; Voldemort – enforced during the horrendous regime of his power, were to be handed over to the Ministry for questioning and a trial.

Death Eaters, Snatchers, Supporters who were still jiving for the fallen man who stuck terror into everyone with just the subtle mention of his name, and anyone else who did evils against muggles and muggle-borns. The trial would end in one of three ways: they were sent to Azkaban for an unlimited amount of time to fit their crimes; they were given the Kiss of Death by Dementors if they were deemed too atrocious for a small mercy such as Azkaban; or if they were from rich pure-blood families, like Malfoy, they were able to pay for their freedom under the table.

Everyone he knew had fled the Country or gone into hiding to avoid Azkaban and, quite possibly, given the Kiss of Death. They packed their bags and obliviated anyone who came within a slight contact of them. For someone notorious as him – widely spread panic through every mud-blood (muggle-bornmuggle-bornmuggle-born) in hiding just at the mere mention of his name; a moniker in every sense of the word – it would have been suicidal to not go in hiding.

…Especially if he so happened to hand over the “Golden-Trio” to the Malfoys’ and killed, not to mention maimed, hundreds of muggle-borns, blood-traitors (although, he wasn’t suppose to kill him- only hurt them), and the likes.

Scabior was a wanted man; wanted by the aurors, the Minister, countless families of those he killed and/or turned over to the profligate ministry during the reign of He Who Must Not Be Named - Voldemort, Vol-dee-mort.

Needless-to-say, the bounty for his head was quite high at the present.

He wasn’t some stupid man, though.

He was a snatcher, and although their current reputation was rather tarnished and branded as being lackies for the bigger man, a smart snatcher. Certainly not as intelligent as some of the other wizards around, but in comparison to the lot he was with, they should have just given him a decree stating that he was regular genius.

Scabior knew where to hide, how to avoid being detected, and how to scavenge and weasel his way out of tight situations. Not unlike the present state of affair that had befallen him on his way through a muggle-inhibited village.

A group of bounties (six, maybe seven of them) were gathered right outside his current hiding spot. He could easily smell their cologne and the faint hint of singed clothing: no doubt a result of a hasty fight or getaway… Or capture.

He kept his eyes pealed in case they noticed something not quite right about the way the picture on the wall was perched, or how the bed spacing seemed a little off. Making a hasty retreat in a tough dilemma was his specialty, as it was the man he was traveling with for a hour or so maybe.

He was never very fond of being with companion, but he was also not very interested in carting things around. Scabior would much rather be the leader of a group that he was able to command into doing his bidding; he was a slothful person who liked to leave his own devices to someone else to be burdened with the troubles.

They walked in the room, cautiously, looking around for anything out of place – don’t look under the damn bed, don’t look under the damn bed – or seemed suspicious. Scabior wasn’t too sure of the shuttering male companion he took while traveling the same way: he seemed like the type of person who would sell out even his own mother in order to save his own skin.

If the bounties caught him because that little weasel couldn’t keep his mouth shut… Scabior ducked deeper under the bed, not daring to even breathe. He heard them talking lowly to each other, their voices a gentle hum over the sound of their feet as they moved around still. Hiding in such a stupid place wasn’t a good idea – a number of things could have gone wrong – but it was a last minute idea.

“Wait, wait,” one of the men started.

Scabior couldn’t see past the comforter that fell of the edge of the bed, obscuring his view from anything other than their midsections. He held his breath as he man slowly started toward the picture.

“Well?” A guff voice demanded, sounding closer to him than the picture.

The man was now standing at the edge of the portrait, settling himself against the wall tightly. “I heard something.”

Heard something…? That was bloody ridiculous! There was nothing… And then Scabior saw it: a miniscule little movement from the corner of the painting. It was barely noticeable unless someone was paying apt attention to it. His eyes narrowed; that fool was trying to escape.

Bang. The painting fell to the floor and turned into a cowering man, howling in pain and clutching his arm. “Bloody-”

There was another bang and flash of light. Scabior winced, shifting away from the commotion. With little-to-no room to disapperate anywhere, he was stuck waiting it out.

The man he was traveling with (something Scabior was vehemently against at the start of) was sniveling at the boots of the bounties, seven sets of wands pointed at his chalk white face. Scabior could see that he was sweating profoundly; shooting fleeting glances at the spot he was hiding in, as though debating his chances of survival if he gave them his head.

…The head of Scabior, an infamous snatcher and part of Fenrir Greyback’s little gang.

“Are you alone?” A thickly accented voice leered down at the shaking man.

“I-I,” he scurried around a bit, holding his tongue for a while.

One of the men jabbed his wand into his side. “It’s a yes or no answer.”

Scabior - who was glaring at the man with a profound warning when his brown eyes met his own head on in a stare - started to panic: if they caught him, he would be sent to Azkaban right away. From what some of his friends told him… Death was much better. Mud- muggle-borns were starting to take over as guards; torture was much fiercer as they demanded answers for their deceased loved ones, and the like.

Hastily, the man darted his gaze away from Scabior’s darkened eyes, he drew a shuttering breath; “I… Am; there is someone here… with me.”

All wands were directed around the room instantaneously; someone murmured, asking in a subdued voice where he was hiding. The other man – that rat bastard who gave him away – shakily pointed to the bed.

There was no time to react with seven wands pointed on his head. With a quick, nonverbal spell, he flung the bed forward at the men lining up at him, hitting two of them dead on. The other five dove out of the way, flinging quick spells at the now visible ex-snatcher.

One of the men jeered, “Scabior, eh? We’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Raising his wand over his head, eyes quickly darting around at the faces of the five men left standing, he spoke evenly. “Shame I haven’t heard a thing about you…”

“Enough is enough, Scabior,” another man sneered from the furthest end over the groans of pain from the two men, and apparently, the little weasel that gave him away (shame, he thought smugly). “You’ve been on the run for three months now; it’s time to face judgment.”

“I wasn’t apart of Voldemort’s-”

“-Save it;” the man jeered, rolling his eyes, “we don’t want to hear it.”

He kept searching for a way out… He was the fastest snatcher, with a huge record as being one of the top dogs, and here he was cornered by some low level bounties who didn’t even know how search a place properly. It was a mockery to his intelligence.

…Of course, he was just being a sarcastic prat, as per usual.

Five were still standing, wearily directing their wands at his face. He was outnumbered; a sorry feat and an obvious opening to surrender, but that wasn’t the kind of game he played. Scabior could see only two options of getting out of this situation – alive.

One: he could go with them and face his chances at a “fair” trial with the Ministry;

Or (Scabior wasn’t a big fan of the “or” factor) he could cause a distraction and high-tail it out of there as fast as possible.

“What’s it going to be, Scabior? Come with us willingly,” the man moved in, just a fraction; but he saw it, “or by force.”

Hmm… Scabior crossed his arms over his chest, efficiently grabbing onto the wand he kept hidden inside his leather jacket, and tried to play it coy. Slyly, he slid it out and shoved it under his sleeve, the tip of it poking out.

“Decisions, decisions…” He mocked, letting his arm drop. “And so very little… Time… Stupefy!”

Before the men could react to the suddenness of the spell, Scabior had quickly disapperated, leaving behind a stunned man and four enraged bounties in his wake.

\- - -

It was kind of ironic in a way: usually he was the one giving the chase, not being the chased. He had something they didn’t though – patience. Looking for those crafty mud- muggle-borns wasn’t as easy as it looked; people got slippery when they had two choices: run or die. The latter was the most obvious choice, and they get the snatchers hell when they could. A jinx, hexes, unforgivable cruses, charms; they used anything at their disposal when needed.

The chase was always exhilarating.

Watching them – the prey – feebly struggle to hide and run away from him as he trails after them lazily was the highest form of entertainment he could find. The clever little minxes found interesting ways to get out of a tough situation when they were caught- much like cockroaches or rats. Corner them and they’ll find a way out; stomp all over them and they’ll still survive, albeit in a rather poor way.

He wasn’t prejudice like many of the other snatchers who had some unfathomable vendetta against the mud- muggle-borns. He was doing this – catching them – for purely personal gain and riches. It only helped that he got a rather hefty sum for brining in the ones that the previous reign of Death Eaters wanted and he was able to put his talents – scavenger hunting, a muggle-born once called it – to work.

Scabior never thought that those scavenger hunting abilities would ever be needed in reverse as he ran away from the people chasing him down. Still – he was a rather difficult one to get; tips and hints taken from the very people he was trying to capture.

…And they said muggle-borns did nothing for society.

\- - -

“Hello,” wide, poignant eyes peered at him though his hazy vision.

Blinking tiredly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Whaddya wan’?”

The girl – now that he could see clearly – was a strange looking one; wide, owlish eyes with a dreamy expression to them mimicked his blinking, long silvery blonde hair tied back with… a spoon? Was that right? He looked closer and found that it was a spoon. He shook his head at the oddity of the willowy girl crouching down near him.

She smelt like fresh soil and lavender – not unpleasant or overbearing.

“I fear you’ve got a chase of Moon Frogs- horrible creatures…” She was completely serious.

Scabior sat up, wincing as the sharp pains in his back showed just how terrible of a sleep he had. The soft cracks and pops in his lower back showed just how terrible his sleep was. He cracked his back; It felt better –much better afterward.

He was fully aware of the girl crouching a few feet away from him, peering at him as though this – finding a man dressed in rags and sleeping in an old cellar – was an everyday occurrence. It was dully comprehended that this girl – strange, yet very pretty looking – could have been a threat to him; she could have turned him in whilst he was sleeping, and now, was only waiting for someone to come pick him up.

Surely she had to have known about him – about who he was. It would have been a surprise if she hadn’t, what with his name and printed on the Daily Prophet for all to see: Scabior, sided with Voldemort. He read it once; a reprint of previous weeks meaning that they had no qualms about re-using articles, especially if it were to help out in clause.

It didn’t vouch in much of a chance for him with Lucius Malfoy running his mouth to anyone who would listen – in “confidential, of course; how could they let precious Mr Malfoy to have to worry for he and his family if someone were to come after them; but Scabior knew that all the known Death Eaters were either in Azkaban, helping to save their ass by putting people in Azkaban, or dead, so the obvious choice was to break it down by order of elimination, and Malfoy was the only choice left – about who all was in with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (or Voldemort, but their was still that lingering air of fear, of hesitance in saying that name out-loud) while he was in high power.

He flexed his fingers, the aching cracks reverberating around the small shed. He leaned back; fully ignoring the little chit still watching him was a vague expression on her face, finally getting a look at the place he ran to for hiding after he got away from the bounties.

It was an old cellar that looked much like the inside of a barn – if that barn happened to be the size of a small bedroom. Hay was strewn around in broken, messy clumps, dusty and itchy when touched. The walls were made form wood, a graying wood that shown age and a thick layer of dirt. It was a small square of a place with a ladder falling from a little rectangle following it up.

It smelt like dust and an animal farm.

…With a hint of lavender, but he didn’t want to vouch that subject.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here-“

“-Not really,” he shrugged, his crass and sarcastic demeanor shining through. He wasn’t going to be polite to some strange girl.

She didn’t say anything after that, just stared at him openly. It was gyrating on his nerves; shouldn’t she be gloating for turning him in or something? And why the hell wasn’t she outside?

“Why don’t you take a picture, love?” He cocked an eye brow, watching her eyes widen and her pale eyebrows raise, as though mimicking his own arched one.

Luna’s eye brows raised higher, “I would, but I don’t particularly think I have a camera on me.”

Scabior just stared.

“I could paint one, though. I find I’m rather good at that-”

He easily tuned her out, opting not to have a seemingly ridiculous conversation with some chit who sounded absolutely serious, as though she would actually like to paint him.

That’s ridiculous; there isn’t anything to paint.

\- - -

She starts to speak again, her voice like a soft melody, “nargles got your brain?”

He blinked, but says nothing in return.

She’s too weird for words.

He’s too jaded to strike up a conversation.

\- - -

Neither of them speaks for a while, just sitting down on the dirty hay beneath them. Scabior grows anxious and wondered why he hadn’t left yet, why he didn’t go somewhere else to avoid being caught. He chalks it up to a lack of motivation – and not that the girl sitting a few feet away from him is still openly staring and he wants oh-so badly to wipe that clueless look off her face.

Why wasn’t she gloating? Why wasn’t she telling him that he’s going to jail- wasn’t she one of Potter’s friends? Didn’t that make them sworn enemies regardless of the trepidation jutting through their veins – but he’s starting to think about himself and not so much of the girl.

He’s afraid.

He doesn’t want to go to Azkaban.

He doesn’t want to die.

Scabior doesn’t show this on the outside; he looks cocky, confident, haughty – nothing that he was currently feeling. It’s a guise he wears all the time and feels only half. The worry was building up slowly; surely they should have been here by now? He was a sitting duck, waiting to be dragged off.

He’s at a loss for why he’s not moving.

He glared sourly at her.

It’s all her fault.

\- - -

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says nonchalantly, as though he didn’t ask – demand – about why no one was coming to get him; as though it’s nothing to worry about.

Rightfully, he doesn’t believe her. He’s been around too many liars to know never to trust a pretty face – he thinks back to Bellatrix Lestrange – or suave words. “Oh yeah, how can I believe that? I bet their on their way right now.”

Luna blinked prudently, speaking softly as if addressing a stubborn child. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

Part of him, the gnarled and obscured part of him, wants to believe her. The other rational part knows that she’s only lying to keep him clam.

He knows this because it’s what he said to keep his own prisoners calm.

\- - -

Her name is Luna Lovegood.

She went to Hogwarts in 1992.

She’s a Ravenclaw.

People call her Looney Lovegood.

Her mother’s dead.

Her father’s been a little off since he was taken away by the Death Eaters.

Her eyes are the prettiest shade of grey Scabior ever saw.

She’s eleven years younger than he.

Her imagination is avid.

She’s slightly insane.

Luna Lovegood is a genius…

\- - -

“Why haven’t you left yet, girl?”

She opens her wide, owlish eyes and looks at him as though crumple- he’s not going to finish that because it’s a ridiculous notion to even think about – whatever was standing right next to him.

“Oh, I don’t think I can...”

Scabior refrains from his sarcastic comments that she would just obliviously wave off and talk about something else.

His voice is holds a little mockery to it; old habits die hand, after all, “oh, why ever not, beautiful?”

“The cellar is locked.”

He laughs because he thinks she’s joking.

She stares at him with a serene smile on her face because she thinks he’s gone mad.

\- - -

She was telling the truth about the cellar. After calming down enough to ask her once again, he checks, and the wooden door doesn’t move an inch. He lets out a frustrated growl and slams his hand against the rotting wood, hoping to open the door.

He senses the magical charm in pace and can’t use wandless magic to let himself out. He’s stuck in a cellar with some chit who thinks that nargles are real and that the minister is corrupted by some factious character that no-doubt was part of the girl’s imagination.

Scabior scowls, a feeling of dread rising inside of him. He’s stuck in some cellar with a girl who’s pretty much useless and there isn’t any prospect of getting out. He jumps off of the ladder, pointedly avoiding her seemingly condescending eyes and sits down.

He can feel her gaze - it makes his stomach churn and his muscles tense up – weighing him down as her passive slate eyes watch him. He clutches his pocket where his wand is pointing out of – that always comforted him, knowing that he had the upper hand via magic.

“Did you find a way out?”

He’s sure her voice is mocking him.

“No.” He answers briskly, childishly keeping his gaze on a rat scurrying in the corner.

“Oh, I thought you had,” frustration wells up inside of him by the airy tone of her voice, “I was really hoping to go home and have some-”

He stops listening to her now.

Nothing she says is worth anything anyways.

\- - -

“You know my name,” she starts for the seventh time that evening – they’ve been locked inside the cellar for over three hours; she conjured up a magical clock, much to his chagrin as he thinks she’s trying to up him in magical ability – for “something to talk about since he wont listen to her theories”; “but I don’t know yours.”

It’s a prompt for him to tell her his name, he knows this and smirks at her with lazy eyes, all previous feelings of annoyance shrouded with the new challenge she placed in front of him. He’s a master at manipulation and restoring fear inside of his victims (or “challengers” as he liked to call them when they ran away from him with the prospect of getting away).

“Oh? My sincerest apologizes, little lady,” he says sneeringly, “it’s probably proper that I tell you, hmm?”

She shakes her head, locks of silvery blonde falling over her shoulder in waves, some wayward strains moving in front of her face. He has the strangest urge to brush them away-

“It is.”

Scabior shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking away from her innocent gaze. He doesn’t want to think about her hair – or how pretty her eyes are, or how soft her skin is – or her anything for that matter. He covers up his slip with a crude remark about why she would want to know his name that has her cocking her head to the side and a furrow coming between her eye brows.

She doesn’t say anything else after that.

He’s glad because his unsavory comment has him thinking about it now – in full detail.

Neither of them spook to each other for the rest of the hour.

\- - -

He’s painfully aware of her now; not that he wasn’t before, but it’s different now. He notices her not as some annoying girl he had the misfortune of being stuck with, but as the intriguing woman who’s locked in the same cellar as him.

She’s – as he stated many times before – a really beautiful girl (the irony of someone like him calling someone like her such a eloquent name as that doesn’t escape him) with a abnormal sense of humor. That doesn’t deter her from her own beauty, her own innocence. She’s naïve to some people; blissfully ignorant of the “big bad wolf” picturesque placed out for someone like him-

-Someone who sold people to the Ministry, to Voldemort, for measeley money in his pocket; someone who doesn’t care about anyone else but himself.

He doesn’t like her.

She’s cute, but so was that other mudblood-

(But Luna isn’t a mudblood, and she’s not one of Potter’s friends)

-And the one’s before that.

He is only entertaining the idea – of him and her – to pass the time. It’s a fruitless substitute to avoid the clutches of boredom (and the lingering fear of “what if…” or “when he got out…”). He knows that the moment he steps out of this cellar, he’s going to be carted away to Azkaban.

Scabior isn’t afraid.

He doesn’t get afraid.

He gets angry.

He gets redundant.

He gets anxious and goes on a hunt.

There isn’t anyone to chase after anymore.

There’s only him, the four walls, and her.

…And maybe that’s what scares him the most, more than the prospect of Azkaban or the Dementors kiss: being trapped alone with someone he has no control over.

\- - -

She says that she remembers him, that she saw him fighting against Neville Longbottom on a bridge.

He scoffs indignantly at that, faking disinterest when he’d much rather not remember when he had to desperately use magic to narrowly escape death. He should have been boasting that he was able to Disapperate away from a falling bridge and debris when stable ground works best, but he doesn’t.

It was a fluke.

If that damn boy didn’t-

He stops. His eyes flicker up to her face; she looks like she’s caught in a daydream or just loopy.

He would have thought the latter if he had just met her, but it’s been twelve hours and he feels like he knows her now.

“You would’ve known my name then.”  
She doesn’t change her expression at his sudden question – or demand, rather – instead she looks like she had expected him to say something like that.

Cheeky little…

“Yes, I know who you are.”

Her voice holds an Irish lilt to it (he doesn’t call it cute, because petty words like “cute” to Scabior are meaningless) that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Then why’d you ask me?”

Her expression changes to that of mild – he entertains the idea that she can’t be surprised by anything – curiosity, and simply states:

“I thought we were playing the stranger game.”

If he was any other person, he would have slapped his hand against his head in agitation.

He rolls his eyes up to the boarded ceiling and keeps them locked up there. “Well, stranger, what else do you know?”

He can feel her gaze on his face.

It makes his stomach churn.

It’s not unpleasant.

\- - -

“…Nargles?”

“No, those are crumple-horned snorkbacks.”

“What’s the difference, darling?”

“Nargles infest mistletoe-”

“-Fascinating.”

Scabior half expects her to continue on with her story about Nargles, or whatever they were called, but she doesn’t. He glances up at her pensively, gauging her expression. She’s… neutral.

“What’s wrong, love?”

Her owlish eyes blink. “Hmm?”

“With you,” he rolls his eyes at her, “what’s wrong with you.”

Luna grasps the necklace around her neck – a weird radish pendant of some sort – and shakes her head vaguely. “You’re not interested in any of this-”

“What gave you the first idea?” He couldn’t resist.

She laughs, uncontrollably and loud. It’s not that funny, but he can’t help the swell of pride at hearing her tinkering laughter at something he said.

“You’re so funny.”

Scabior smirks. “Just realizing that now?”  
Once she’s solemn, Luna looks at him with an unreadable expression on her face.

Blinking a little self-consciously, he touches his cheek in the motion of wiping something off. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Luna grins serenely. “No, not at thing.”

She’s a weird one that Luna Lovegood, he thinks sullenly scrubbing at his face.

He’s grinning anyways.

\- - -

He is staring.

Not at the rotting wood, or the hay on the floor, or the door at the end of the ladder, but at her-

-At Luna Lovegood.

He can’t fathom why every second he looks away only to have his eyes end up on her again. Each time he looks at her – her face, her creamy white neck, her tiny shoulders, her pale skin, her silvery blonde hair, her scuffed up shoes with the mismatching socks, her multi-colored leggings, or her hitched up pewter blue skirt – she always catches him and stares right back at him.

For a minute of each time, he expects her to get angry at his open gawking. Strangely (he should be use to this now) she doesn’t. They lock eyes – slate against emerald – and stay that way until on of them breaks contact and looks elsewhere.

Somehow, he thinks he should feel even the slightest bit embarrassed at openly gawking at her while she waves her wand around, but he doesn’t.

She’s not the prettiest girl he’s seen (blatant lies to cover up the obsession he has fixated on her); she’s strange, and completely insane, but he can’t stop looking at her.

Normally fixations don’t bother him – he always ends up digging himself deeper into the hunt (but this, he has to remind himself, is not a hunt; she’s a girl and he’s a man. Nothing more, nothing less) -, they do deter him from his optimum goal, but never bother him.

He’s never felt a rush like this in a normal setting (as normal as being trapped in a charmed cellar was). It’s always – always – when he’s chasing someone, something. The raw adrenaline, the need to catch whatever it was that held his interest in such high regard, that was when he felt so…

Caged in.

His eyes are steadily losing their focus on her face as he slips into the vague snips of chases – previous trophies that he caught – and compared them to Luna.

He lost track of how long he was openly staring at her, thinking back to all the chases worth mentioning, and trying to find any similarities between them and her. Why was he so fixated on her like he was with all his previous conquests? It would have been prudent to say she was more entertaining – more enthralling – kind of like saying one image of the same shot was better than the other.

Of course he was thinking it.

Luna was better – if not more so – than anything, any person, he caught and chases after. She was the picturesque moment taken with an expensive camera, full of clarity and the right amount of exposure, light, and saturation, while everything else was taken with a lesser make, blurred around the edges, no point of focus, horrible exposure, and too much saturation.

Luna was the ideal image hanging on walls, displayed for everyone to see.  
No; she was his coveted thought; his prize possession.

Hishishishishishishishis.

When he finally looks at her, she’s staring right back at him with an openly curious expression.

“Is there something on my face?”

He blinks in surprise, not expecting her to say anything – they rarely do, anyways – but once the initial shock wears thin, he smirks in her direction.

She said the same thing he told her when he caught her staring at him – is there something on my face.

He shrugs nonchalantly.

Touche.

\- - -

The magic charm holding them captive is wearing thin.

Luna notices first when she tries to cast a simple warming spell as the night air creeps inside and leaves a chill. Scabior doesn’t expect it to work that much, she tries anyways, and succeeds.

The charm was only temporary.

Eventually it would wear off and they would be able to escape.

He should have been… happy, right? So why did he feel so lackadaisical at the prospect of leaving so soon?

-Of leaving Luna so soon?

She was just another meager fixation, another conquest he wanted to win. She was of no importance to him or anything he did. She would only be a hindrance to his hiding.

In retrospect, she was the palpable enemy right now.

She was the distraction that would lead him to Azkaban or the Dementor’s Kiss.

Luna was nothing.

If she wanted, she could have him locked up, killed… anything she wanted to happen to him would come true because he was the object of a deep rooted hatred still running rampant under the ideal masks of those who wanted revenge for the wrongs that he - his people - caused them.

An eye for an eye, was the expression that immediately came to him as he gazes at the dozing girl in the corner.

Once the spell was gone, he would stun her and run.

There would be no turning back.

He was going to put an end to the troublesome obsession he had on her in order to live, to survive.

She stirs, a piece of a milky white hair falling in front of her eye.

Starting now, he thinks as the desire to lean over and brush that wayward strand of hair becomes too much.

\- - -

She knows something was wrong by the tense posture he sitting with. Luna wasn’t blind, she wasn’t deaf, and she certainly wasn’t oblivious. She knew that he was avoiding her: keeping their conversations short and quip, sitting far away from her, steadily growing distant, not looking her in the eye… All of those things were the same as the Hogwarts students use to do to her in an effort to exclude her strangeness from them.

He was ignoring her.

And it hurt.

Normal things don’t hurt Luna. She would like to think of herself as Switzerland, always neutral to everyone else’s problems. When the girls in her dorm would cry over stupid boys and pimples, she would just shrug it off. They were petty problems.

When her mother died, it wasn’t a painful hurt but more of a deep curiosity and a stinging in her throat. Why was her mother gone? Where did she go? She’d constantly ask herself questions that only slightly broached the subject, never divulging too close to it in fear of her father’s reaction.

They never spoke about her mother much.

Aside from the little snippets of “mother would have loved to see the freshly fallen snow” or “mother would have liked to see this/taste that”, nothing else was ever said between her. Luna often thought it was some kind of creature that they were too frightened of to write about, but then dismissed it as too hurtful.

The hurt she felt from this man – this complete stranger she found laying in a cellar and decided to venture near – was almost like a deep upsetting inside her stomach. Luna didn’t know why people said their heart hurt… hers felt heavy, but it didn’t hurt.

Her stomach did.

A lot.

Luna would rather have taken pimples and shunning over stupid boys.

\- - -

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

He did not want to have this conversation at the moment.

“Whatever you say, love.”

Scabior wishes he would just drop it, not say anything else until the charm is completely gone and it would be easier to leave (her).

She doesn’t relent.

“You’ve also been calling me strange pet names too: love, darling, girl, beautiful.”

He doesn’t want to be so aware of her; aware of how her voice falters on the end of that sentence, as though she doesn’t believe it, as though she isn’t aware of how gorgeous she is.

“What’s the matter with that, love?”

She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, brushing back silvery blonde locks from her face. “Isn’t that usually a term of endearment to another person?”

“I suppose; I don’t think much of it.”

He’s glad that she dropped the first subject, but almost peeved that this whole thing was of her own trickery to get him to talk to her again. Stubborn little chit…

“Oh.”

Scabior blinks; she seems almost… disappointed. This isn’t the time to worry about her feeling; she tricked him and it’s time for pay back.

“So, beautiful, gorgeous day today.”

Luna’s eyes roll up to the ceiling. “I wouldn’t really know…”

“But beautiful, the weather is always gorgeous when you’re around…” He smirks to himself as she fumbles for something to say. “Seeing you makes me so happy, lovely.”

He leans forward, leaving only a thread of distance between them. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wonders if he’s going too far with the poor girl, but dismisses it when her eyes lock with his own. He brushes his hand against her cheek, leaning in closer to her face.

He starts laughing at her wary expression, pulling back.

When she finally catches on to his implications, a tinge of red flushes on her cheeks, and she sputters out something unintelligible that almost sounds like ‘stop teasing me’.

He is shocked to see that Luna Lovegood has insecurities.

She flushing red, and staring at the dirty ground, refusing to make eye contact, “that was cruel.”

He shrugs it off – he never said he was a nice, fair man – still smirking at her with that damnable smugness that makes her uncontrollably shy at the haughty looks he’s sending her. He scoots over next to her, bumping his shoulder against her lithe one.

Luna blinks up at him. His listless mood swings are making her antsy.

They sit in silence for the rest of the night, watching through the little cracks in the walls as the sun goes down and a dark blue takes on the sky.

She wistfully says something about it being gorgeous to look at (or was it something about a mythical creature?) and Scabior, look down at the pale blonde laying her head on his broad shoulder, has to disagree with her.

She is the most gorgeous thing to look at.

…But he’s not some whipped pussy, so he keeps it to himself.

Avoiding her was futile.

Somehow, that annoying little chit has got him talking to her about nargles, again.

He remembers when getting his compliancy use to be hard: if you didn’t have a good barging for him, he wasn’t going to pay you any attention; all Luna Lovegood had to do was ask him a question.

\- - -

The charm is almost all gone.

In another couple of hours or so they should be able to leave.

He should feel… relived that he isn’t going to have to stay inside this horrible cellar, but with everything that’s happened he can only stare at the dozing girl resting her head on his shoulder and feel a sense of foreboding.

Somewhere when the lines between were blurred, in the back of his head he thought that they might – that they might what? He thinks, raising one hand to place it against his forehead. It’s ironic, it’s petty, it’s completely laughable… but in the back of his mind he might have thought that something would come out of them.

What? Did he honesty thing that a… relationship would come from their brief time together? Scabior doesn’t “do” relationships – he does meaningless shags whenever available. He turns his head toward the sleeping girl – the younger girl, and although wizards not generally care much for age difference in marriages and relationships, she’s much too young for him – and belatedly thinks about her own wants.

Which he’s sure is most definitely not him.

Luna wouldn’t want someone like him. He doesn’t have that same zeal that she does; he’s dangerous, he’s testy, he’s a wanted freaking man. She’s just a child.

Once he was out of this place, he was going to obliviate the young girl and run far away from this place. He was going to go into hiding until everything died down some and he could make his grand escape to some far away Country.

Luna didn’t fit into his plans.

She was a distraction.

Luna started tossing slightly in her sleep, her arm landed on his lap, fingers clutching at the fabric of his leather pants. He grimaced as her hand gently brushed against his thigh, dangerously close to his groin.

Oh yeah, he thought plucking her hand and moving it away from him, she was a huge distraction.

\- - -

The end.

It’s not a fairytale.

He’s not a Prince and

(she looks so much like one)

She’s not a Princess.

Happily ever after never came

(he didn’t expect it to, but it would have been a welcome twist)

to them.

“I suppose the charm will be gone by tomorrow morning.”

Her voice is lithe, wistful, serene, leaving an ever-lasting impression in the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to talk about it – about tomorrow morning – and he suspects that she doesn’t either. Luna’s not going on about Nargles or Snorkbacks or whatever else she’s into

(and he kindofsortof misses it).

The tentative… companionship they formed over the last forty eight hours was at a standstill of letting go or farthing it. It’s nothing like an elastic band, he thinks fisting his hands inside his tight leather pants, it’s been stretched too far already.

Sooner or later, it’s going to break, snapping back and whipping both of them on the hands. He’s been preparing himself for that the moment she established that they were friends. They really aren’t though – they can pretend all the want, but the truth of the matter is

(hekindofsortofmightbeinlovewithher)

They are nothing but two people trapped inside of a cellar.

“What are you going to do when you get out?”

Wincing, he judges how exactly he can answer that – run, I’m going to run away from everyone (from you) and hide myself so I don’t get caught (so you can’t find me) – without making something out of nothing. Or rather, make everything from nothing.

She put her friendship out.

He took that as he putting -

Well, he just doesn’t know.

“I’m going far away from here.”

They’ve had this conversation. In the deep throes of the night when the only thing they could do to keep warm was to inch closer to each other, simultaneously keeping the other talking long enough to steal somebody heat. She was much more graceful at it.

“Oh, where to?”

repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Everything is on – fucking – repeat.

(that or she’s trying to figure out where he’s running to)

“Somewhere far away from here.”

Luna doesn’t look affronted at his blatant attempt at stopping her insistency to hinder him in his plight of trying to forget her. She doesn’t know this – or maybe she does, the little Ravenclaw was smart – and for that he’s glad.

“I’d like to go somewhere far away from here too,” he tried to pretend that melancholy isn’t present in her voice. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

He nods once, fixating his stare away from her face – open and curious.

They don’t say anything for a while, the cold chill of night slipping through the cellar.

He tries not to think of how this is the last few hours he will ever spend with Luna Lovegood.

\- - -

“It’s been…”

What’s he suppose to say? Fun – because it wasn’t. Interesting – well, it was, but that doesn’t seem like a formal goodbye. Odd – hell yes. Strange – yes, in more ways than one actually. Invigorating. Refreshing. New. Wonderful. He doesn’t want to -  
He grimaces.

“Yes,” she nods even though he hadn’t finished, “it had.”

Scabior swallows thickly, “hmm, right, love.”

In a few (agonizing, tense, lonesome) minutes the charm will be gone and they will be free to leave. She’ll go somewhere exotic (because exotic and strange screams to Luna like a moth and a flame) and meet someone (he has to refrain from snarling in jealously) nice, a sweet young boy – no, no; he’ll be just like her – and settle down with him.

(Forgetting all about the man she was locked in the cellar with)

He’ll be on his way to New Zealand, or Australia, or Africa, or China, or Peru, away from the bounties trying to hunt him down, away from the hectic life in England. He’ll hide for a while, moving sporadically to avoid being caught. That will be his life until he can finally settle down somewhere too. He wont get married (because pretty things like that scare him) or have kids (because they’re bratty and annoying), he’ll lay low and invest himself in something to occupy his time. Eventually-

(he, too, will forget all about the girl he was locked in the cellar with)

No, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to actually forget Luna Lovegood, maybe in time he might not be able to recall her, but she’ll always be there in the background, a semblance of what –

(could have been)

would never be.

His hand jerks against his side; he wants to reach out and touch her, pull her close, hold her. Refraining from doing anything, he leans against the ladder leading up towards (what would have been salvation twenty hours again, and is now) the exit.

Ten…

She’s watching him with a certain look in her obeisant eyes; her gaze is fixated on him, and she looks like she’s waiting. It sends a jolt right through him (maybe she feels the same way…), like an electric shock that jerks wildly around inside his stomach (… but that’s wishful thinking), making his palms sweat and his heart speed up (and he’s not a wishful thinker).

Nine…

He wants to kiss her. Oh, God, how he wants to feel those soft lips slide against his, tongue shyly poking out, slipping oh-so innocently against his own. It’s a fantasy he has: one that involves a scantily clad Luna Lovegood brushing her hand through his hair, lips against his own in a passion, heat filled kiss that is sure to leave them breathless, and the other hand running the length of his torso.

He swallows thickly, licking his lips; she’s too damn…

(good for him)

Eight…

Luna’s watching him like a hawk, eyes taking in every motion. A part of him wants to think that she’s waiting for him to make a move, but the rational part of him knows that she’s only doing such to make sure he doesn’t do anything funny.

Like kill her or run away.

“So, uh…”

Seven…

The rest of the question dies on his tongue: Should I kiss you or not?

“Yes, uh…”

She’s humoring him. That’s all; she doesn’t know what he wants – and even if she did, she wouldn’t want him to do it. She’s not teasing, she’s not flirting, she’s not inviting, she’s just Luna, and Luna isn’t doing a damn thing.

Six…

“Where are you going to go exactly?”

He doesn’t think as he watches her mouth move to form the words. “New Zealand.”

“New Zealand,” she echoes, and he berates himself for giving it away so easily. “Sounds pretty.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“I think that New Zealand would be a very lovely place to go.”

She’s fucking making idle conversation to pass the time. He’s angry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to make him…feel things. She wasn’t supposed to make him want to invite her along with him.

This isn’t supposed to be like this.

Five…

He climbs the ladder, ignoring her look of knowing, as though she fucking understands why he has to be away from her. He’s a grown goddamn man; he shouldn’t be lusting after her like a school boy, or wanting to wake up next to her on a lush lavender bed, watching the sunrise, or brushing her hair out of her face, or hugging her around the waist, or saying things that lovers do.

“Fuck,” he curses, and it feels good.

He can feel her climbing the ladder as it starts to shake a little under the pressure, but he doesn’t acknowledge the little chit who’s unintentionally turned him into a semblance of the man he once was. He’s not changed. He’s still Scabior. He’s still wanted, he’s still running, he’s still a coward.

And she’s Luna.

Nothing changed.

Four…

Luna once read in a muggle fairy-tale that a dashing Prince was supposed to save her, and they would live happily ever after. She used to think that she was the Prince who was going to save the ill-begotten Princess and they would go looking for Nargles in the winter and other creatures her mother told her about until they found what they were looking for.

This isn’t a fairy-tale; it’s not decorated with fancy print paper and little designs of flowers and birds. There isn’t a group of animals that were going to help her, or a castle in sight.

The only thing that’s real is the horrid monster that’s keeping her Princess locked away, and, ironically, it’s the Princess herself.

Or in this instance, a wanted man named Scabior.

She’s not a Prince, and he sure as hell isn’t a Princess, but she likes to pretend.

(and maybe he’ll pluck up the courage the fight the monster and kiss her already)

Three…

“You’re scared,” she utters, reaching the final step right besides him.

He snorts, “Of what, love?”

“Of you,” she answers, her hand reaching out to brush lightly against his. “Of your own inhibitions.”

Other than the light touch of her smooth, small, pale hand against his rough, larger, darker one, she does nothing else. Of you, of your own inhibitions. Scabior isn’t scared. He’s not some pussy who jumps when the boogieman knocks on his door, or when something bad happens.

He snorts louder this time, “whatever you say, Princess.”

You’re scared.

Scabior frowns.

He’s not fucking scared, and her hand isn’t making his heart beat faster and faster.

Two…

The charm is wearing thin; he can feel the substantial release inside of his core.

New Zealand, he thinks; that’s far away from England, but probably not far enough. Africa, that would be too hot and too smoldering for a reclusive such as himself. America, too obvious – they would look for him there first. Canada, it would be the same as America. Egypt, that’s highly tempting, but with too much sand.

He mentally pictures a globe inside his mind; spinning round and round until it stops somewhere. He wants it to be someplace like England with the magic and the freedom, but he doesn’t want the rain or the gloom. It has to be somewhere they won’t think of looking for him – or escapees that were once in the clutches of Voldemort and the anti-muggle movement.

Fiji. The Island he once heard of when he was scouting for missing mud-bloods. Some of them scurried off to far away Islands loitering around the Pacific Ocean and the Mediterranean. He would have to travel via muggle ways – disapperation would be guarded and traced daily for those wishing to outrun the Ministry.

With the new destination in mind, all he could do was wait for the charm to wear off completely, steal Luna’s wand, and… disappear. The idea of causing her so much – no, he wasn’t going to tread down that path that he’s been closing up ever since she first asked for his name. He won’t let himself be thwarted by simple emotions that will only cause him grief.

She’s only an outlet was becoming more of a prayer than a mantra, nothing more. Her grevious presents, ever persistent in his mind, was taking it’s toll on him – he could easily see the two of them together, embracing like –

\- like lovers.

He needs to remind himself that he’s only Scabior, and she’s only Luna.

They aren’t lovers, they aren’t even friends.

“I’m going to miss you,” her gentle voice, consistently airy and serene sounding, broke him from his internal monologue. “A lot more than I should, probably.”

He tries not to dwell on that statement: a lot more than I should, probably; and glances at her.

“I have that effect on woman, love.” The jab is half-hearted, and she knows it.

Luna plays along though, “yes, I suppose you do.” She nods, as though assuring herself of something.

When he doesn’t answer, she continues: “I kept thinking that maybe I could visit you in New Zealand sometime, keep in touch with friends as they say.”

I’m not going to – he stops himself for he can utter that last word, nodding along to cover up the temporary confusion. “We’re not friends.”

Her face was blank, “I suppose not, but it was fun to pretend.”

He’s seething, but he doesn’t understand why, “we’re not pretend friends, we’re not companions, and we’re not anything! You’re Luna Lovegood, and I’m-” fucking in love with you.

The words hang in the air over head even though they weren’t spoken out loud. Silence is thick, but the tension is thicker. Scabior refuses to meet her gaze – he’s not a coward, he thinks degradedly, glaring at the bottom of the threshold – and Luna’s is steadily keeping her eyes on his face.

“And you’re…?” She presses after a few seconds, urging him on.

He grounds out his words through clenched teeth, “nothing.”

“But you’re something, everyone is.”

Anger is like a flash of lightening surging through him instantly. She’s playing with him, like some kind of toy. She probably gets a rouse out of this whole situation, he thinks, seething.

“Is this some kind of game to you-” the words are laced with a bitter tang of irony when he remembers that some of his previous conquests once spoke these words whilst pleading for their lives; “because I really don’t have the patients for this kind of toying around, love.”

Luna’s obvious to the stony eyes he’s steeling against her as she reached out and touches him. He stiffens at the warmth of her hand, “no, this isn’t a game – not like exploding snap or-”

“Shut up.”

“I truly think that we’re friends, Scabior.”

He shutters, “just shut up.” His name never sounded so sweet before.

“I don’t have many friends; I’d like you to be one though.”

“Shut up.”

“I actually like you, a lot.”

Luna’s suddenly thrust against the wall beside the ladder, a dull ache settling on her shoulder blades from where his large hands are digging into them, keeping her pressed against the wooden wall. She opens her mouth to ask him what he doing, but finds herself unable to when his lips, rough and hard, seal over her own in a fierce kiss.

He pulls away from her, boring holes right into her wide, perturbing eyes. “Just. Shut. The fuck. Up.”

His mouth is on hers once more, dominating her. He tilts her head to the side to gain more access to her luscious lips, his tongue slipping past her gaping mouth when he slides his leg between her thighs. When she doesn’t respond, and seems to be unable to speak, he pulls away, snarling at her surprised and flushed girl pressed against him.

“I’m not your fucking friend,” he hisses in her ear, latching on to her pierced earlobe, making her gasp. “I don’t even like you all that much, you annoying little chit.”

“I thought-“

Biting her bottom lip, he efficiently cuts off the rest of her sentence. “And I thought I told you to shut up.” He murmurs around her bruised and slightly swollen lower lip. “Now, you’re going to be quiet until I’m done, okay?”

One…

She nods slowly, slate eyes boring innocently into his.

“I don’t like you; I don’t want to be your friend. I can’t stand you, actually; you’re like an irritating little tick that I can’t get rid of. But, gods, I do fucking want you.” At her pale brows rising higher, he smirks. “Sex, Luna, I want to fuck you.”

Gulping, Luna shakily reaches up to brush the red streak in his hair that had fallen out of the tie he threw it all up in. Her hands are clammy as they touch the stubble on his cheek, brushing down his jaw and neck to finally rest on his chest where his heart is beating wildly.

“I like you,” she speaks, her voice showing no sign of how this ordeal is affecting her. “I know you’re scared.”

He snorts.

“You are, though; you’re afraid of me, and of yourself. You don’t just want to-to have sex with me, you also like me like I like you. It’s conflicting to you because you’re not use to anything like this, so you’re lashing out to keep me from getting closer to you.”

Both of her hands are resting against his cheeks, slowly lowering his head until their lips met. Her kisses are slowly, softer than his. Her wet lips slide against his in a way that lovers would find to be sensual, but he finds to be comforting. He moves slowly against her mouth, opening his lips to allow her tongue to gently poke through, touching his own in the middle.

She leans forward, moving her mouth against his, before pulling away. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He can’t.

She’s right.

(fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.)

She tastes like cinnamon and apple, he thinks, moving himself away from her embrace. “You’re… wrong.”

Luna nods once, “I know.”

Their conversation has a hidden undertone that he hadn’t realized until then.

Tell me I’m wrong.  
(Stay with me)  
You’re… wrong.  
(I can’t)  
I know  
(It’s okay)

The cellar door is pushed open and light floods into it quickly. He grimaces at the suddenness of the light, but doesn’t protest to the feeling of sun against his skin. Once adjusted to the brightness of the light, he climbs out after her, careful to avoid touching her again.

He doesn’t want to feel that electric shock run through him again.

They stand beside each other, eyes roaming around the area. Luna’s hand clutches his desperately for a minute, and then lets it drop back to its place against his side.

“I guess this is goodbye,” she speaks softly, her voice neutral.

(I don’t want it to be)

He shifts, catching her gaze on last time, taking in ever minute detail of her. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

(It has to be)

“I’ll miss you, Scabior.”

(Please don’t go)

“Uh, yeah, love, me too.”

(I don’t want to)

“I won’t tell anybody about you.”

(Then don’t)

“Good.”

(It’s not that simple)

“Yes, well, be careful of Nargles, they hide in mistletoe, you know.”

(It can be…)

“Later, Lovegood.”

He turns away from her, pointedly avoiding touching or looking at the silvery blonde any longer. Wandless magic had always been a specialty of his, and he silently thanks his previous teacher for showing him this little bit of practical magic: envisioning Fiji, the beautiful beaches and gorgeous waters, avid greenery, and rich culture, he can feel the tug on his navel, and smell the exotic freshness of the Island.

Then, he’s gone with a loud popping sound.

(You’re still Luna Lovegood, and I’m still Scabior

Nothing changes that)

La Fin


End file.
